


Beautiful

by justtakeachanceanddance



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Barista Kurt, Depression, Exhibitionism, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mildly Dubious Consent, Phone Sex, Self-Harm, Sex Toys, Stalking, Suicidal Thoughts, Texting, stalker Blaine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 16:06:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justtakeachanceanddance/pseuds/justtakeachanceanddance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blaine Anderson learned he was sick when he was eight years old. Sixteen years later, a chance encounter with a beautiful man at a coffee shop shines a ray of light on the shattered pieces of Blaine’s life, but begins to tear apart his flimsy self-control. One by one, Blaine’s barriers fall until he’s finally forced to face his truth. (Fill for the <a href="http://glee-kink-meme.livejournal.com/28110.html?thread=30443214#t30443214">stalker!Blaine prompt on the GKM</a>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please review the warnings before reading!! This is a work in progress, with updates posted as I am able to complete them. I track the tag "stalker!Blaine" on Tumblr if you post about this fic.

Blaine Anderson learned he was sick when he was eight years old.

Blaine worshipped his big brother, Cooper, and all his friends. They were sixteen. Big kids. _So cool_. Cooper drove a shiny black car their parents bought special just for him. His friends were always over the house, playing video games in his bedroom and basketball in the driveway.

Blaine would play with his toys or his keyboard in his own room, extra loud and with the door open, every time Cooper’s friends came over, hoping one day they might invite him to hang out with them.

His dream came true on a fateful April afternoon. “Hey, Blaine!” he heard Cooper yell from the neighboring room. “Get in here!”

Blaine threw his Transformers on the floor and ran to Cooper’s doorway. “Yeah?” he said excitedly.

“C’mere. And shut the door.”

Blaine bit down on his bottom lip, trying but failing to hide his grin as he closed the door behind him. He didn’t bounce up and down when he sat on the edge of Cooper’s bed, even though he really, really wanted to. He couldn’t act like a little kid in here.

Down on the floor, Cooper’s friends were gesturing toward something in a magazine one of the boys was holding. “Man. I would _totally_ do her,” he said to the other. Blaine watched their lips curl into tight, funny-looking smiles. Blaine liked looking at boys’ lips. They were so pretty: pink, sometimes wet, all different shapes and patterns.

“Blaine, your big brother’s about to give you your first taste of heaven.” Cooper slid a magazine across the bedspread toward him. “Check this out.”

Blaine recoiled in disgust at the picture Cooper placed in front of him. It was a lady with long, blonde hair, and she was _naked_ – crouched on the ground with her legs spread, smiling straight up at the camera. “Ew! _Gross_.”

“ _Whaaat_?” Cooper turned the magazine back toward himself to gaze at the picture again, then looked at Blaine, incredulous. “That’s _hot_ , Blaine.” 

Blaine wrinkled his nose and shook his head rapidly. “I don’t like her.” He shifted his wide eyes up to Cooper’s face, eager curiosity getting the better of him. “Are there…are there any boys in that magazine?”

And his world fell apart.

Three pairs of shocked eyes were suddenly on him. Blaine squirmed under the intensity of their hard, quiet gazes. Why were they looking at him like that?

One of Cooper’s friends was the first to break the silence. “Dude. I think your baby brother’s a fag.” He and the other boy burst out laughing. But Cooper just kept staring at Blaine.

Blaine was too scared to move; he was too scared to ask what they meant, or why they were laughing. He swallowed hard and looked up at his brother again, hoping he wasn’t in trouble.

“No, there’s no _boys_ in here, Blaine,” Cooper finally replied, his voice cold and flat. “Guys don’t look at pictures of other guys naked. That’s _sick_.”

“Oh.” _Sick._

Cooper waved a hand in the air, as if to shoo him away. “Go on, get out of here. Go back to your room, stupid.”

Blaine ran back to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him and flinging himself onto his bed. Hot tears burned in his eyes as the memory of Cooper’s frosty stare, set against the sound of mocking laughter, tumbled around his head.

Cooper thought he was sick. Because he wanted to look at pictures of boys.

But he liked boys. Was he not supposed to?

Something heavy and prickly settled in Blaine’s stomach. It felt like the time last year when he’d wet the bed and his mother had scolded him while she changed his sheets in the middle of the night.

_Sick. Sick. Sick._

Blaine curled into a ball and hugged himself tightly, squeezing his arms so hard he cried out in pain. The stinging made him forget about Cooper, about boys, for just a moment. He clenched his fists around his skin again, and again, and wailed his shame into his pillow. 

Cooper’s friends taunted him mercilessly after that. “Hey, _faggy_!” they’d say with vicious sneers, mussing his thick, curly hair so hard it made his head hurt. Then they’d walk away, leaving a broken little boy in their wake.

Cooper never joined in with his friends’ bullying. But he never stopped them, either.

***

When he was fourteen, Blaine came out to his parents. He wasn’t going to let his brother – that _jerk_ with his crisp Ivy League degree and his perfect girlfriend – embarrass him anymore.

“That’s ridiculous, Blaine,” his mother scoffed when Blaine sat them down in the living room after dinner one evening. “You’re a good-looking boy. You belong with girls, not with…other boys. That’s…”

_Sick._

“Go finish your homework, please,” she said, dismissing him with a wave of her hand. “We’re not talking about this anymore.”

His father said nothing. Just like Cooper.

A month later, Blaine went to a school dance with his friend – the only other gay guy he knew. They didn’t even dance together; they just lingered along the edge of the basketball court, drinking punch and cracking jokes about their awful piano teacher.

Not two hours later, Blaine was lying face-down on cold, hard asphalt, rocks and glass shards embedding themselves like daggers into his cheek. The pain of a steel toe kicking bloody bruises down his spine was no match for the agony of knowing that _they were right. All of them._

When Blaine came to, he was in a hospital bed; his parents hovered over him with wary, tight-lipped expressions. Their silent judgment weighed so heavy in the air that, for years afterward, Blaine wished those bullies had finished him off.

Blaine never said another word about being gay. He bottled up his sick desires, capped them tightly and hurled them into a vast, dark ocean that he promptly turned his back on – though he could still hear the waves crashing menacingly against the shore behind him.

His parents sent him to prep school after that. At the Dalton Academy for Boys, he was Blaine Anderson: charming do-gooder, excellent scholar, enviable a cappella singer whom the girls at Dalton’s sister school drooled over.

He let them.

Blaine had sex with a girl for the first time when he was sixteen, at a Warblers house party, after getting lost in a blur of vodka shots and a joint shared among five of them in his friend Wes’ basement. She had long, blonde hair, just like the lady in the picture Cooper had shown him when he was eight. As Blaine pounded into her, his orgasm hitting him like a splash of frigid water to his face, he wondered if his brother would be proud.

When he was eighteen, he escaped to New York City – Fordham, for business school. “It’s not Columbia, but I suppose it’s good enough,” his father remarked as he signed the check for Blaine’s first tuition payment.

At Fordham, he was _Blaine_ : the hot musician with the captivating smile that lured every female within a mile radius. “Chick magnet,” his jealous roommate muttered each time he stumbled through the door at three a.m. Blaine would always chuckle, even as he ached to rake his fingernails over his crawling skin.

It was too easy to pick up girls. They were all over him as he jammed on the piano in the lounge or the tavern, crooning wistful lyrics about love and loss. He’d choose one like an apple at the grocery store, reaching for the pretty, shiny ones and ignoring those with rotten spots. But he didn’t crave any of them – not like how his mouth watered for the ice cream in the aisle he never let himself walk down.

Yet he kept trying; he was always searching for something, anything that might offer a cure to his sickness.

***

It’s been sixteen years, nine months and two days since Blaine learned he was sick. He’s kept a running tally in his head of the days since that sunny Saturday in Cooper’s bedroom, dredging up the details each morning as he wakes from a restless night’s sleep to live a lie another day.

Sixteen years, nine months and two days after his world shatters, Blaine sees a glimmer of light shine among the broken pieces.

The man stands behind the register at the corner coffee shop down the street from Blaine’s office – his day job in sales that he fucking _hates_ ; another piece of fiction in the sham that is his life.

“Can I help you?” Apathy rides on the mellifluous tone of the man’s voice. He keeps his head down, not bothering to initiate any sort of personal contact with his customer.

“Uh…” Blaine falters; his usual coffee order evaporates from his mind as his eyes trace the smattering of freckles across the man’s cheekbones. “M-medium drip. Please.”

“That it?”

“And a…raspberry biscotti?”

The man finally picks his head up. “Four seventy-three.” Blaine notices his eyes – hazy blue, like the sky on a summer day – twitch wider when they lock with Blaine’s. 

_Beautiful._

They’re both still for a moment that inexplicably feels like forever, yet far too brief at the same time. Blaine snaps out of his trance when the man quirks a graceful, expectant eyebrow.

“Oh.” Blaine digs into his pocket for his wallet, pulls out a five-dollar bill. “Here. Keep the change.”

He watches the man’s mouth – Blaine’s never stopped liking boys’ lips – curve upward in a small smile, betraying his seemingly indifferent air. “Thanks,” the man says softly, somehow audible over the din of the café. 

The warm, nervous fluttering in Blaine’s chest rapidly morphs into a cold, hollow pounding of heart against bones as he exits the coffee shop. He tramps through the frigid January morning, gulping his coffee; his tongue and throat protest in vain against the scalding liquid.

“Morning, Blaine!” he hears all around him when he enters the office. His co-workers’ smiles and nods indicate that he’s responding appropriately, but the drum of his pulse in his ears is too loud to let his own words register in his brain.

He makes a beeline for the bathroom, locks the door with trembling fingers, and howls the silent scream he’s mastered over the past sixteen years, nine months and two days. He tears at his trim jacket, his dress shirt; sharp red streaks bloom across the starch white fabric as his soul tries to claw its way free from his body.

_Sick._

The pain makes him forget about lips and fists and shame. In a few minutes he’s smoothing his jacket sleeves over his bloodied arms, clearing his aching throat with a handful of cool water from the tap. And then he’s Blaine Anderson again: suave, dapper ad salesman, target of covetous female glances that he answers with a beckoning smile.

He’s in control. Always in control.

***

But the man at the coffee shop plucks Blaine’s control out of his clumsy hands and rips it to shreds. Blaine can’t, _won’t_ stop his feet from carrying him back to the café every morning before work.

“So, umm...” Blaine starts, four days after their eyes met for the first time.

“Kurt,” the man supplies.

“Kurt.” Blaine’s mouth curls around the word. It fits nicely. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before. Are you new?”

The man – _Kurt_ – nods. “I started last week. I just moved a few blocks from here.”

“Where’d you move from?”

“Chelsea? I was living with my stepbrother and his wife. My best friend.”

“That sounds nice.”

“It was.” Kurt lets out a bitter sigh. “Until they kicked me out.”

Blaine’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. “Why’d they do that?”

“She got pregnant,” Kurt answers dully. Blaine’s only response is a wince. “Yeah. No kidding. An unplanned pregnancy isn’t going to help her chances of nabbing a starring role on Broadway.”

He gives Blaine an appraising, not-at-all-inconspicuous once-over. “One perk of being gay, I suppose,” he quips, tossing his head. “Don’t have to worry about that!”

A firestorm of thoughts assaults Blaine’s brain as _gay, Kurt’s gay_ clicks over and over in his mind. He wonders if anyone’s ever called this beautiful man _faggy_ , or _sick_ , or beat him till his ribs cracked and his spirit broke.

Blaine swallows hard against the bile that threatens to rise up from his stomach. “Right,” he answers, his voice quivering as he fights to keep his composure. “So, do you have roommates now? Or do you live alone?”

“No roommates.” Kurt rolls his eyes self-deprecatingly. “I tend to think I’m better off alone.”

Blaine huffs out a humorless laugh. “I know the feeling.” He can sense Kurt’s curious gaze on him, but he doesn’t meet it with his own frenzied one.

“S-see you tomorrow, Kurt,” is his brusque farewell as he retrieves his coffee and escapes his truth for the warm woolen blanket of lies he’s knit: once comforting, now suffocating and fraying.

***

“Sooo…” Kurt says in lieu of a greeting the next morning, mimicking Blaine’s tone from the previous day.

Blaine can’t stop his smile. “Blaine.”

“Blaine.” His own name sounds honeyed and _beautiful_ , _beautiful_ when Kurt speaks it. “Where are you always off to at 7:48 a.m.?”

Blaine must look confused, because Kurt chuckles at him. “You come in here every morning at 7:48 on the nose,” he explains.

“Oh?” _7:48. 7:48. 7:48._ “Yeah. I guess I’m pretty punctual.”

“Lemme guess.” Kurt squints as he studies Blaine’s checkered tie, peeking out from his thick black overcoat. “Businessman?”

Blaine nods, and Kurt continues. “Something…high-end.” He gestures to Blaine’s coat with his chin. “That’s Michael Kors.”

“Ad sales.”

“Ah.” Kurt nods smugly. “I have excellent powers of observation.”

Blaine’s gaze meanders down the length of Kurt’s graceful neck. His skin is smooth and creamy white; the porcelain tone is stark against the navy lines of his apron, tied in a taut bow around the back. “I’ve observed.”

***

Blaine comes to learn that Kurt’s from Ohio, too; that they both sang in neighboring show choirs during their high school years.

“Maybe we competed against each other!” Kurt exclaims in wonder. “Wouldn’t that be so funny?”

That night, Blaine falls asleep in bed surrounded by albums from glee club competitions of years past, photos haphazardly torn from their pages in his feverish search for any glimpse of a beautiful, blue-eyed boy.

***

When Blaine enters the café at 7:48 the next morning, Kurt’s watching for him from the register. The smile that blossoms on his face is like medicine that eases Blaine’s sickness.

But it’s only for a few minutes. When he’s gone, the elixir wears off, and the withdrawal that follows is worse, so much worse than ever before.

***

Thirteen mornings after they first meet – Blaine’s kept count, right alongside _sixteen years, nine months, two weeks and three days_  – Kurt has Blaine’s coffee ready when he walks in the door.

“I made this one special for you,” he says, his voice soft and sing-songy in a way Blaine’s never heard it before. “On the house.”

“Thanks, Kurt.” A tiny burst of joy trickles down from his smile to his heart, suffocating the incessant pangs of _sick_ and _fag_ and _wrong_ that stab him there every other moment of every day.

Kurt nervously bites down on his lower lip, and Blaine can’t tear his eyes from the tiny pearls of white digging into luscious pink skin. “Don’t throw that cup away, now,” Kurt says coyly. And with a wink, he turns to take another customer’s order.

As Blaine walks out of the café, he absently peers down at his cup, smooth and warm in his hands. The tiny script, written in black ink on white paperboard, immediately catches his eye.

_Kurt  
_ _646-555-2421_

Blaine sips his coffee slowly, so slowly he can barely taste it, as he blindly makes his way to his office. He sits in front of his computer, unseeing but for the four letters and ten digits branded into the cup on his desk.

It takes him hours to finally finish his coffee – long turned cold, like the icy panic flowing through his veins. He brings his cup to the kitchen and fills it with water, gulping down cupful after cupful so quickly he’s left gasping for air.

When he returns to his desk, cup in hand, his arms are loaded with sticky note pads in every size and color he could find. Squares of yellow and green and orange and purple begin to paper the walls of his cubicle, the edges of his computer monitor, all with the same message scrawled madly across.

_646-555-2421_

As his coworkers flit about – confident ad salesman Blaine Anderson a tiny cog among them – Blaine fills his cup with water again and again and drinks desperately. He pictures the thin line of Kurt’s lips as he licks water droplets from his own; he imagines the wetness he tastes is Kurt’s saliva. His cum.

_Sick._

When Blaine gets home that evening, he sits in darkness and types Kurt’s number – _646-555-2421_ , long since committed to memory – into his phone. He doesn’t enter his name along with it; instead, he keys in the one word he always thinks of whenever he sees Kurt: _Beautiful_.

The next morning, 7:48 comes and goes. But Blaine doesn’t return to the coffee shop.


	2. Chapter 2

_Well, you really screwed up this time, Kurt._

Hopelessness settles heavy in Kurt’s heart as he watches the hands of the clock on the wall slide from 7:48, to 7:49, to 7:50. Another morning, and still no sign of Blaine.

It’s been three days since Kurt held a pen in his shaking hand and carefully wrote out his name and phone number on the side of a paper coffee cup. Three days since he took a leap of courage, expecting to land safely in the arms of a handsome, dark-haired man with exquisite taste in outerwear. But instead he’d fallen flat on his ass, alone.

***

Worry lines had creased Kurt’s forehead the first day Blaine was late for his daily medium drip. “Blaine never showed up this morning,” he murmured to Kasie, the only other barista he’d struck up a friendship with so far at his new job.

“You mean _omgthefuckinghottestguyihaveeverseen_?” she teased.

“He always comes in at 7:48,” Kurt said, too anxious to acknowledge her good-natured poke at his schoolboy crush. “It’s like...our thing.”

Kasie shrugged in response, bouncing between orders as if she was on a permanent caffeine buzz from inhaling the sweet scent of lattes eight hours a day. “I don’t know, Kurt. Maybe he got hit by a bus or something.”

Kurt shot a wide-eyed glance her way. “Not helping!” he yelped.

“Sorry!”

Kurt checked his phone no less than a dozen times that day for news reports of fatal pedestrian bus accidents in Hell’s Kitchen.

On the second day, Kurt’s nostrils flared with annoyance as he denounced Blaine’s name in between macchiatos and white mochas. “I gave him a fucking free coffee. The least he could do is call and say, ‘Gee, thanks, let me buy you dinner for being so kind and thoughtful.’” _And maybe we can fuck afterwards because we’re both clearly attracted to one another._ “I mean, what was I, his morning flirting practice? Oh, god. He _was_ flirting, wasn’t he? What if he’s not even gay?”

“Oh, he’s _definitely_ gay,” Kasie assured him, chuckling lightly. “His whole freaking face lit up when he saw you every morning. And he looked like he wanted to jump over the counter and devour your neck that one time.”

“ _Ugh_. What the hell? I bet he thinks he’s too good to date a _barista_.”

Kasie held up a finger to silence Kurt’s grumbles. “Hey – we are _not_ baristas, remember? We’re–”

“I know, I know.” Kurt sighed. “We’re _actors_ filling our abundant free time with an income-boosting social activity.”

Kasie smiled and nodded, reaching out to rub his shoulder affectionately. “Don’t blame yourself, Kurt. It has nothing to do with you. I promise.”

“Yeah,” Kurt muttered weakly, entirely unconvinced.

***

Kurt’s used to rejection. Eight years of trying out for plays and musicals and concerts have bulked up the thick skin that high school bullies helped him paint on in layers. He’s learned that landing stage roles is a matter of unchangeable, hard and fast characteristics: Is your voice in the right range? Do you look too young, or too old? Do you fit the abstract, dream-like vision the director has held in his head for weeks, months, years?

His logic allows him to be rational when he doesn’t get callbacks, or when his only paychecks for months on end come from whipping up espressos for the nine-to-five crowd. It’s the only way he’s been able to hold on to his dreams of an acting career, while watching others around him slowly let theirs slip away under the weight of disappointment and self-doubt.

But his personal life isn’t nearly as cut and dry. He can’t go into relationships the way he does auditions: like a battle, with the heavy shield of a character protecting his heart. He can only be _Kurt_.

Life’s harsher that way. Life leaves him reeling when the people he’s opened himself up to spear him in his most vulnerable spots. Life leaves him wondering why he feels like a round peg in a world full of square holes.

He’s still stumbling his way out of a sudden whirlwind of change that swooped in on New Year’s – just three short weeks ago – and swallowed him whole.

_“This year is all about new experiences,” he’d declared as he, Finn and Rachel clinked champagne flutes at midnight, in time with confetti and cheers on their tiny television._

_His resolution, tinged with hope and optimism, proved prophetic: minutes later, Kurt would learn that Rachel’s glass was full of sparkling cider instead of Moët._

_“We’re going to need your bedroom for the nursery…”_

Kurt knew the day would come when Finn and Rachel would want the apartment to themselves. He just never expected the announcement to be delivered via stork.

That week, he’d found a new apartment, a new job; he’d packed up all his belongings – an astounding collection of clothes and shoes, mostly – and moved himself out of the place he’d called home for the past eight years. He hadn’t lost his two closest friends, of course, but he wasn’t fool enough to think things would ever be the same again.

Now he was alone – torn out by the roots from the only consistent support network he’d had since he came to New York as a bright-eyed eighteen year old. He was a little wilted, but still alive, searching for a ray of light to help him thrive.

Blaine had been the first burst of sun to shine on his new world. Kurt’s sure he saw his own interest reflected back in Blaine’s bashful smile and warm, eager eyes, always tinged with a hint of nerves. Which was the only reason he’d drummed up all his courage and put himself out there for the taking – or breaking.

As had become customary with Kurt’s personal relationships, his great risk came not with great reward, but with complete and utter despair. He’d invited Blaine in, only to receive another painful lance to the spindly shoots he was trying to sprout.

_Oh well_ , Kurt thinks glumly as he slogs through another mindless morning of work. There’s other things he can look forward to, like his audition next week. _Victor/Victoria_ ,the Broadway revival. A role he was dying to play.

There _had_ to be more sunshine out there. Maybe it was just blocked by clouds now, hidden from view, waiting for him to find it.

***

On the evenings he’s not catering to the whims of the caffeine addicted, Kurt wanders his new neighborhood, tasting bagels and cheeses or perusing the aisles of shops and stores in his search to belong. He floats among the throngs, an anonymous face in a sea of people seemingly more fulfilled than him.

Tonight, his iPhone leads him to a charming bookstore with paperbacks stacked in neat rows from floor to ceiling. He wants that part – he can _get_ that part, he knows it. He just needs a little inspiration.

Kurt skips over the theatre books at first, instead idling by the travel section. His fingertips skim over smooth book spines before settling on a photo guide to Paris. He’s still never been to the City of Light; the closest he ever got was an ultimately futile attempt to persuade his father to let him study abroad for a semester in college.

Kurt forgets about rejection from best friends and casting directors and cute guys in coffee shops, and lets himself get lost in a faraway fantasy. _Maybe I’ll move to Paris_ , he thinks as he flips through pictures of the Eiffel Tower, of Notre Dame, of the Champs-Élysées. Maybe that’s where he’s meant to be. Maybe in Paris he’d land leading roles, or meet men who actually called him when he gifted them his number. 

_Just like you thought you’d find in New York_ , he reminds himself with a scowl. Sighing quietly, he slides the book back into its slot on the shelf. Twenty-four ninety-five was too high a price to pay for something that would only make his heart long for possibilities he should be looking for in the place he’s already standing – not to mention for someone whose rent just increased by a thousand dollars a month.

As Kurt makes his way to the section of plays and monologues, a tiny chill creeps along the back of his neck as the unmistakable feeling of being watched invades his consciousness. He snaps his head back to glare behind his shoulder, but everyone he sees is engrossed in books or conversation, oblivious to his existence.

When he faces forward again, his eyes catch a short, dark-headed man stepping out into the night. The man’s expensive black overcoat and thick, shiny hair, gelled and styled into submission, bear an uncanny resemblance to Kurt’s memories of Blaine’s retreating figure.

_Jesus, would you stop thinking about him?_ Kurt rolls his eyes, admonishing himself for hanging on to threads when the brilliant tapestry of New York lay at his feet. _Move on, already._

Kurt strolls home in the frosty darkness, clutching his new book of monologues to his chest as he watches his breath come out in thick, golden clouds under the harsh streetlights. He climbs long flights of stairs to his fifth floor apartment – _god_ , he’s already dreading the heat of summer living in a walkup – and commences his nightly skincare routine, the long-practiced ritual now startlingly lonesome without his perky best friend fighting him for space at the sink.

He’s leafing through the pages of his book, letting the drowsy hum of traffic and red wine slowly lull him to sleep, when his phone chirps happily on the nightstand beside him. He jolts upright in bed at the sudden, piercing sound that slices through the peaceful stillness of his apartment.

Kurt puffs out a quick, calming breath, willing his pulse to stop pattering in his throat. But it only pounds harder when he reads the cryptic text message he’s received from a number he doesn’t recognize.

9175558474 (7:48pm): Are you planning a trip to Paris?

Me (7:50pm): What?  
(7:51pm): Who’s this?

9175558474 (7:53pm): Paris is beautiful. Just like you  
(7:55pm): You remind me of Paris. Your grace, and the way your eyes sparkle  
(7:56pm): You would look perfect there. Although I hope you stay here in New York

Me (7:57pm): Forgive me for being bitchy like Paris too, but could you please tell me who the hell this is?

9175558474 (7:59pm): It’s Blaine. From the coffee shop

_Blaine. Ohmygod. Way to go, Kurt_ , he thinks, cursing his own stupidity. _But how does he know about...oh!_ Kurt startles again, this time at the memory of the anonymous, yet familiar man at the bookstore.

Me (8:00pm): Oh, Blaine! Hi! Sorry about that.  
(8:01pm): So that *was* you at the bookstore tonight :)

Blaine (8:03pm): I guess you caught me this time

_You caught me this time._ Kurt shudders as Blaine’s words crawl up his spine. Had there been other times Kurt hadn’t noticed him lurking in the shadows?

__

_Great. First he snubs me, and now he’s_ stalking _me?_

Kurt’s gaze shoots up to the black, rectangular void of his bare windows. Without thinking, he gets up and quickly shutters the blinds, double checking the bolt on his door before curling back under the safety of his blankets. _No one’s here_ , he assures himself, even as goosebumps linger over his skin.

He turns back to his phone, keeping his tone light, like the pretty green and white bubbles encapsulating their back-and-forth messages. 

Me (8:06pm): How come you didn’t say hi? I’ve missed talking to you. My mornings are so lonely now

Blaine (8:09pm): I’m sorry. I can’t go there anymore  
(8:10pm): I have a hard time staying in control when I’m around you

Me (8:11pm): No one said you have to stay in control around me, Blaine. If you know what I mean...

Blaine (8:12pm): You don’t understand

_Oh_. The realization – _Blaine’s not out_ – smacks Kurt across the face, swift and painful. His mind suddenly floods with memories of vicious slurs and dirty catcalls as he walked past rows of lockers in his backwards hometown high school. Kurt’s pushed those scars aside for so long now, they’ve practically ceased to exist – not here in his safe, blessed universe of musicals and coffee houses.

Me (8:14pm): Is this something you’re trying to keep a secret?

Blaine (8:15pm): I have to

Me (8:16pm): Can I ask why? Work? Family?

Blaine (8:20pm): Kurt...  
(8:22pm): There’s so many things I want to tell you. So many things I want to try  
(8:23pm): You could show me so much

Curiosity and raw desire weave among the nerves and bitter memories still making Kurt’s heart race. It’s as if Blaine had wormed his way into Kurt’s thoughts during their casual morning chats, discovering fantasies hidden so deep that Kurt didn’t even realize they existed until Blaine presented them in the form of furtive text messages sent in the dark of night.

_This year is all about new experiences, right?_

Me (8:25pm): I’ll show you whatever you want to see, Blaine

Blaine (8:27pm): God, Kurt. You’re the first person who’s ever made me feel good  
(8:27pm): I always feel so bad

Me (8:28pm): I can definitely make you feel good  
(8:29pm): Your secret’s safe with me, Blaine

Kurt squirms in his bed, auditions and monologues long forgotten; he wonders whether the dark, gnarled path he’s abruptly turned down will lead him to the light he so desperately seeks.

Blaine (8:31pm): I’ll see you tomorrow, Kurt

Me (8:32pm): But will I see you?

Blaine (8:33pm): No


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Kurt sings in this chapter is "Le Jazz Hot" from Victor/Victoria.

The lunch café catercorner to Kurt’s coffee house offers the perfect vantage point for Blaine to watch.

There’s no way he can see Kurt past the barrier of steel and crowds and concrete he’s placed between them. But Blaine knows he’s in there.

Blaine sits by the window every morning, and again at lunch each afternoon, surveying the steady stream of customers that flows in and out of Kurt’s shop like bees to nectar. He wonders if Kurt’s hands touched the cups they hold in their own; if Kurt’s eyes ever lift to search for Blaine prowling along the periphery – never knowing that he’s _close, so close_ , just yards across the street.

For five days, Blaine sits and spies, blending seamlessly with the swarms and shadows. No one notices him; no one sees his sickness slowly simmering inside.

No one ever _really_ sees Blaine.

But it’s not enough anymore. The need for _more, closer_ gnaws at him like a wild animal until it consumes his waking hours, crippling his already tenuous control.

So today he lingers – long after the lunch crowd has cleared away, long after the remnants of his food and coffee have turned cold and stale in front of him. His gaze stays fixed on Kurt’s café, chasing the shifting glint of the sun against its windows as minutes stretch into hours. The only symptom he displays of his jittery, caffeine-stimulated anticipation is the furious drum of his fingertips on the tabletop.

When at long last he spots Kurt’s figure emerging from the front doors of the coffee shop, Blaine’s up in a flash. The legs of his chair scrape loudly against the floor of the deserted lunch café.

He’s waited for hours. Waited for this. He only has a minute – mere seconds that tick as loud as thunderbolts in his brain – to catch up with Kurt before the sidewalk crowds swallow him up.

Outside, a moment of frantic searching reveals Kurt quickly retreating away – _farther, farther_ from where Blaine stands. Kurt is a study of urban poise: purposefully striding down the sidewalk on long, slim legs clad in tight, black denim. Blaine clumsily weaves among mobs of people, the antithesis of Kurt’s agility; he doesn’t spare a single glance away as he follows on the opposite side of the street.

It’s only four blocks before Kurt disappears behind a nondescript white door nestled between an empanada shop and a dry cleaner. _His apartment_ , Blaine realizes with a start. He stops abruptly on the corner and observes, evaluates. Decides.

_Closer._

On the next walk signal, he darts across the street to Kurt’s door – Kurt’s _locked_ door. “Come on, come _on_ ,” Blaine implores under his breath as he jiggles the handle, willing it to give under his violent grip. When it doesn’t, he spits out a curse and slams his fist into the offending metal blockade.

He hastily switches tactics, pressing doorbells at random, hoping somebody, _anybody’s_ foolish enough to buzz him in. “FedEx,” he blurts into the intercom at the first response he gets. And suddenly, miraculously, he’s inside – standing in a tiny, barren lobby, closed off from the cacophony of New York. _One step closer._

Blaine’s gaze roves over the names printed on a wall of mailboxes until he spies _K. Hummel_ in fresh black lettering on the box for 5E.

_“You’ll see my name in lights someday,” Kurt declared on their sixth morning together, waving his hand in a sweeping arc across the electrified air between them. Blaine could see the dreams of stardom twinkling in his eyes. “Kurt Hummel. Remember that name, Blaine.”_

Blaine remembers.

With that, he’s gone – scrambling, stumbling up the stairs in a mad dash to get _closer, closer_. He chants the words with each steep, creaking step, over and over; the manic prayer loops through his mind and around his racing heart.

When he reaches the fifth floor, he hears singing – a rainbow of faint notes fluttering high above him, just out of reach. They’re like tiny magnets that pull him, helpless, down a dim, stale hall until he’s perched outside the door labeled _5E_ in tarnished brass.

_K. Hummel. 5E._

It’s Kurt’s voice.

_Kurt’s singing._

Shivers tingle along Blaine’s spine in perfect rhythm with the sound of Kurt’s voice gliding up and down the warmup scales. Music rains down on Blaine, all around – a fragrant spring storm that melts away the bitter winter chill inhabiting his soul. 

It’s _beautiful._

Blaine chest heaves under his heavy coat as Kurt breaks out into [song](http://glee-cast-acapellas.tumblr.com/post/15820197351); each torrid note is wrapped in passion that’s palpable even through the door separating them.

_Oh, baby, won’t you play me Le Jazz Hot maybe_  
 _And don’t ever let it end_  
 _I’ll tell you, friend, it’s really something to hear  
_ _I can’t sit still when there’s that rhythm near me_

Kurt’s muffled voice dances through the air, alternating fluidly between husky growls and feather-light purrs. It’s a delicious, intoxicating mix of sweet and salty, and Blaine wants to _feast_ on it.

He digs his fingernails into the door frame and leans in close, _closer_ , hovering a mere millimeter from Kurt’s door. Nothing touches but his hot, ragged breath, reverberating back onto his face in damp bursts.

This is the _real_ Kurt – nothing like the man Blaine stumbled upon three weeks ago, slogging through his insipid work day chained to a coffee shop register. The private moment makes Blaine’s mouth water for _more, more_. 

What does Kurt do while he sings? Does he flit about his apartment, tidying up dirty dishes and discarded clothes as he croons each sultry note? Or does he stand in place, proud and tall like the world’s his stage?

Does he close his eyes – those dazzling blue orbs that haunt Blaine’s days and nights – so he can feel the music coursing through his veins, interwoven with and indistinguishable from the blood giving him life?

Does his tongue glide over his pretty pink lips between each verse, coating them glossy and wet? 

Blaine roughly shoves the heel of his palm against his cock – a punishment against his body, his _fucking_ body that only ever listens to his sick mind. But the gesture does nothing to quell his growing arousal; it only pushes him _closer, closer_ to the edge, until he’s teetering far beyond the point of return.

Casting a sideways glance down the silent, empty hall, Blaine reaches under his coat for his zipper.

_Zzzzzzzzip_. The sound echoes loudly, too loudly, off the walls around him. Blaine freezes, waiting with bated breath for somebody to discover him, to learn his filthy secret. His pulse pounds in his blazing-hot cheeks, his chest, in time with his throbbing cock.

Nothing happens. Slowly, Blaine’s hand inches down again, pushing away the denim, the cotton until he finds heat and hardness. A low groan rumbles in his throat as he strokes once, twice over the head.

It’s not enough. Still not enough. He needs _more._

Blaine lets the sweet seduction of Kurt’s singing paint a picture that lights up the darkness behind his eyelids.

Kurt’s hands – his slender fingers, wrapped in soft, pale skin – envelop him, smooth and warm, like a home he’s never known. So different than his own knobby brown fist, chapped and cracking from winter’s unforgiving cold. Kurt’s grip is snug and confident. He’s done this before: curled his hand around another man’s cock, learned his shape and weight and what makes him beg for _more_. And yet Kurt’s alive and unbroken and _beautiful_ and why, _why_ can’t Blaine be beautiful, too?

But then Kurt’s pulling him back into his daydream with a lascivious grin that gives away the pleasure he takes in making Blaine fall apart. His searing breath burns a fiery path along Blaine’s neck as he murmurs his promise into Blaine’s ear.

_“I’ll show you whatever you want to see, Blaine.”_

_Show me everything, Kurt. Please._ It’s what he’d wanted to write back; it’s what he wants to plead from his knees. It’s what he whispers now to the airless, vacant hallway where Kurt exists only in song.

_When you play me Le Jazz Hot, baby  
_ _You're holding my soul together_

There’s nothing but a door separating them. Just a door. A dark, varnished slab of wood; an inch-thick barricade between his twisted fantasy and the untouchable reality that’s bewitched him.

Blaine’s never been closer. To another man. To Kurt. _So close._ The realization makes his blood run hotter, wilder – a renewed eruption of lust that’s tamed only by his skin and veins. _So close, and he doesn’t even know I’m here._

A cauldron of pleasure swirls in the pit of his stomach as he pumps his cock as hard and fast as his aching hand will work. Shame lurks along the fringe, but Blaine can’t see it, not now; not when he’s climbing, climbing higher than he’s ever ascended.

_Don't know whether it's morning or night  
_ _Only know it's sounding right_

He’s lost to the world – drowning in an exquisite reverie, swaying on quaking legs that barely hold his weight. Sweat prickles along his forehead, down his back – an imperceptible chill against the sparks of friction and fervent desire setting his skin ablaze.

Harder. Tighter. Faster. _Closer, closer. God, so close.  
_

_So come on in and play me Le Jazz Hot, baby  
_ _‘Cause I love my jazz...hot_

Blaine bites down on his arm, _hard_ , muffling his choked gasps and lewd groans as he comes unglued. He plummets from his peak, high in the sky, spurting thick ropes of cum across Kurt’s door – a gift, a mark, a claim on the man on the other side of that immobile boundary between them.

Ecstasy collides with agony as his teeth dig into the pits and gashes littering his skin. The pain slices through his foggy afterglow like jagged shards of ice – sharp, sudden, stunning his entire body silent.

He stares, stares, stares; his lucid mind reels in horror at the image of his cum dribbling slowly down Kurt’s door.

_“That’s sick, Blaine.”_

As Kurt starts his song from the top, Blaine bolts down the hall – _farther, farther_ away – the beautiful music crushed under the raucous, humiliating laughter of his demons roaring in his ears.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Kurt sings in this chapter is "Crazy World" from Victor/Victoria.

Kurt _hates_ working nights. 

He’s always thrived in the earliest hours of the day. It’s when his father used to gently prod him awake, so many years ago and miles away from here. They’d sit side by side at the kitchen table, awash in golden light and comfortable silence, welcoming each morning together over buttered toast and Raisin Bran.

Kurt still rises with the sun – though his only breakfast partners now are the clamor of Manhattan outside his window and the countless dreams that float through his mind.

Evenings aren’t for wiping down stained, crumb-covered tables and counting up credit card receipts. They’re for indulging in long, luxurious baths and oversized glasses of wine; conducting sweet-smelling experiments in his cramped kitchen; traipsing to the theatre to see his friends in their latest productions; or meandering for miles through the chill of winter, gazing at pretty, frosted storefront displays and letting his city breathe life into his soul.

Or maybe even accompanying an attractive man out to dinner. It _is_ Friday night, after all.

Kurt snorts; the crude sound echoes loudly through the silent, empty shop. _Right. Because you’re in such high demand._ There’s only one guy who’s given him more than a passing glance since the holidays. _Blaine_.

Kurt’s hand stills in mid-swipe over a tabletop as the dark, mysterious man invades his thoughts for the hundredth time that week. Blaine’s haunting words scroll endlessly across his field of vision, as clear as when he read them for the first time four nights ago.

_“There’s so many things I want to tell you.”_

Yet Kurt’s heard nothing but radio silence since. He’d think he made the whole thing up in his head if he didn’t still have their conversation saved on his phone, pondered over and pulled apart until his mind spun with unanswered questions.

_What_ did Blaine want to tell him? Why would he make such an impassioned plea, followed by a total lapse in communication? Has he ever told anyone else these things – his secrets?

_“You’re the first person who’s ever made me feel good. I always feel so bad.”_

Why _Kurt_ , of all people? Why had Blaine placed his trust in the hands of a barista whom he’d met a mere two weeks ago – but couldn’t bring himself to visit Kurt in the flesh once they acknowledged their mutual attraction? _Am I the only person who knows Blaine’s gay?_

Kurt can’t forget the leaden weight of fear the fifteen-year-old version of himself carried through life. How would it feel to bear that load for years – burdensome and buried away from the world? To avoid all physical contact with men he was interested in? To settle for conversations via text message and wistful gazes from a distance?

_“I guess you caught me this time.”_

Kurt’s tried to catch him again – keeping one eye trained on the bustling world beyond the coffee shop windows, always wondering if Blaine’s out there, _somewhere_ , hidden from view.

_Is he_ really _following me?_

The whole idea seemed a bit too Friday night Lifetime movie to Kurt. If Lifetime made films about closeted gay men stalking baristas. He could definitely ace _that_ audition.

Even with all the unknown answers, all his heartbreaking speculation and the tiny, cautious voices whispering _be careful_ in his head, Kurt still _wants_ Blaine. Wants to know more about him, to see him, to talk to him, to let him get close. To sneak around the thick walls Blaine’s barricaded himself behind and kiss the anxiety clear from his mesmerizing honey eyes.

The quiet of the desolate café weighs heavy in the air, ringing in Kurt’s ears – ears that are more accustomed to chatter and traffic and music. He fills the silence with a soft, sweet melody as his damp, dirty rag glides across table after table. 

_Crazy world  
_ _Every day the same old rollercoaster ride_  
 _But I’ve got my pride_  
_I won’t give in  
_ _Even though I know I’ll never win_

_Only two more night shifts left_ , he thinks as he neatly tucks chairs under tables, restoring order to the coffee shop – pushing away his despondency when he realizes it’ll all be ripped apart again by the morning rush in mere hours. Then he can switch back to his usual schedule, once he gets through his audition next Tues–

The deep vibration of his phone in the back pocket of his jeans sends a sudden, violent shudder coursing up Kurt’s spine. The hairs at the nape of his neck stand on end like a distress signal, calling out a single name.

_Blaine._

Kurt instinctively knows it’s him before he pulls his phone out of his pocket and reads the new message shining on the screen.

Blaine (7:48pm): You look so beautiful tonight

Kurt’s head snaps up; alarmed, his eyes frantically dart back and forth, searching the wall of windows running across the opposite side of the room. Nothing greets him but his own startled, wide-eyed reflection, washed out under the bright glare of artificial lighting. It’s impossible to see out into the pitch black night – to catch anyone who might be staring back at him from the other side.

_Blaine’s out there._

Is he across the street, anxiously pacing the sidewalk and sneaking a glimpse at each turn?

_Blaine’s watching me._

Or is he at the window – face and palms pressed against the glass, smirking as he watches Kurt look unseeing into the unknown?

Me (7:50pm): Where are you?

Blaine (7:51pm): Close  
(7:51pm): Your skin glows under those lights. Like you’re an angel 

Me (7:52pm): How did you know I was here?

Blaine (7:53pm): I waited for you. But you never left this afternoon

Me (7:53pm): You were waiting for me?

Blaine (7:54pm): I always wait for you. Every day

“Oh my god.” Kurt barely hears himself breathe out the hushed oath over the thunderous hammering of his heart. _Where?_ he wonders again as he returns his gaze to the opaque bank of windows. _Why?_

_This is insane!_ He should call the police, or tell his boss, or change his number. But instead he turns back to his phone, tapping out the curious question that burns on his tongue.

Me (7:55pm): Why don’t you talk to me?  
(7:55pm): You said you wanted to tell me things  
(7:56pm): I want to listen to you. I meant it when I said I miss talking to you 

Blaine (7:57pm): I miss talking to you too, Kurt. I’m so sorry  
(7:57pm): I...haven’t been well  
(7:58pm): Will you listen to me now? 

Me (7:58pm): Of course

Blaine (7:59pm): I want to keep watching you  
(7:59pm): Come here and show me how beautiful you are 

Hidden behind the false safety of his eyelashes, Kurt’s eyes shift upward to sweep across the emptiness once more, his trepidation suddenly laced with tiny sizzles of excitement.

Me (8:00pm): Where?

Blaine (8:01pm): Shut off the lights

Me (8:01pm): You’re not going to jump out of a dark corner and attack me or something, are you?

Blaine (8:02pm): No. God. I could never hurt you, Kurt. You’re precious to me  
(8:02pm): Please. Shut off the lights and come over here 

Kurt slowly shuffles behind the counter to the light switch on the wall. He holds his breath as he flicks the switch down, abruptly washing the café in darkness.

The air rushes out of his lungs in a piercing shriek at the sight staring back at him.

Blaine’s there – _right_ _there_ – leaning against the brick edge along the far side of the window, his hunched, bundled-up figure backlit in sickly yellow by the garish streetlights beyond.

Kurt inhales deeply – once, twice, three times – steadying himself as he watches Blaine type out a message. A moment later, Kurt’s phone vibrates in his hand; the bright screen gives away his position in the darkened room.

Blaine (8:03pm): Hi

Me (8:03pm): You scared the crap out of me

Blaine (8:04pm): I’m sorry, beautiful  
(8:04pm): Please don’t be scared  
(8:05pm): Come. Sit with me 

Blaine keeps his eyes trained in Kurt’s direction as he taps lightly on the glass, pointing to a plush patterned chair nestled in the corner by the window where he stands.

Their roles are reversed now: Kurt’s tucked in darkness, invisible to Blaine’s probing stare. It’s his chance to escape – he could slide out the rear exit and sprint back to his apartment, or hide in the bathroom until help arrived.

But Blaine’s gaze pierces through the shadows like a laser, finding Kurt’s eyes and holding him in place: numbing his rational thoughts, coaxing his body to obey. Kurt swallows hard as he takes a hesitant step forward, then another, toward the light.

He perches delicately on the edge of the soft, cushioned chair; his stiff spine is ramrod straight with tense uncertainty as he casts a wary, questioning glance at the man on the other side of the glass. Blaine crouches down beside him, seating himself on the tiny brick ledge at the base of the window, inches above the grimy sidewalk.

Kurt wonders if this is what it’s like to visit an inmate in jail – communicating only by phone and pregnant gazes, the icy glass barrier between them cutting off all touch, all scent, all taste. Except right now, Kurt’s not quite sure which one of them is the prisoner.

He fidgets under the heat of Blaine’s smoldering, wonder-filled stare, level with his own and mere inches away. Those gorgeous rings of hazel roam across Kurt’s face...then slowly drop down to where Kurt’s apron-swathed lap is bathed in the barest beams of light from the lamps outside.

Kurt is the first to interrupt their silent conversation, ducking his head to tap out another message on his phone.

Me (8:07pm): I thought you said you couldn’t come here anymore  
(8:07pm): Aren’t you freezing out there?

Blaine (8:07pm): I needed to get closer 

Me (8:08pm): You could get closer than this, you know. Nobody’s here to see us  
(8:08pm): Let me warm you up 

Kurt’s flirty smile falls when Blaine’s expression turn to stone as he reads the messages. He doesn’t look up – just types back, as if Kurt’s not right there, sitting so close they could whisper the words to each other.

Blaine (8:09pm): You know I can’t do that, Kurt  
(8:09pm): But there’s something you can do for me 

Kurt arches an eyebrow in question, waiting for Blaine’s eyes to slowly shift upward and lock with his own. The blankness has vanished, replaced with desperate need that blows Blaine’s pupils open, black and brutal and beckoning. Kurt’s pulse quickens in his throat, beating in time with the suspense-filled seconds until he feels his phone buzz again.

Blaine (8:10pm): Show me how you touch yourself

Kurt freezes in his seat, staring open-mouthed at the message glowing happily in his hands.

_ohmygod. What?!_

Blaine’s silhouette hovers over him out of the corner of his eye, like a shadow of the doubts that tear through his mind. Kurt can feel his pale cheeks blaze vivid crimson as he looks up at Blaine with panicked eyes, wide and round as saucers.

“N-no,” he whispers, his voice trembling as he shakes his head back and forth. _No. No!_ Blaine can’t hear him, not through the thick glass. But he can plainly read the refusal on Kurt’s lips.

Again Blaine’s gaze drops down to type out a message. When his eyes flick back up to meet Kurt’s, they’re narrowed in a challenging stare that pins Kurt to his seat and makes his pulse patter with anticipation.

Blaine (8:11pm): You told me you’d show me whatever I want to see

_Oh. Yes._ He had, hadn’t he? Kurt swipes his thumb against the screen, skimming the heart-wrenching, sexually charged messages they’d exchanged four nights prior.

Who was that Kurt – the one who’d been so bold to tell Blaine he’d make him feel good? Who’d teased that Blaine didn’t have to stay in control, _if you know what I mean…_

Kurt glances at the street past Blaine’s shoulder – lifeless but for the occasional blur of a taxi speeding by. The neighborhood dies down quickly at night, once the bustling evening commute is through and winter’s thick, frosty darkness settles in. It’s just the two of them here, cocooned in muted light and raw intimacy.

_“I have a hard time staying in control when I’m around you.”_

Those tiny sparks of curiosity, of craving thrill through Kurt’s body, fueling a fire of feverish arousal in his belly. Hotter, hotter, brighter. Inextinguishable.

_Me too, Blaine_.

Kurt slides too easily into this uncharted facet of himself; his years of drama training betray the faint shouts of _No! No! What the hell are you thinking?!_ still ringing out from a corner of his mind. He’s the actor now, molding and stretching the boundaries of his new character to fulfill every whim of his brilliant, demanding director.

He tugs at the strings of his apron; the bows around his neck and waist fall away under quick, practiced movements. Tossing the garment aside, he reveals the growing bulge at his groin, the product of Blaine’s provocative persuasion.

Kurt tamps down his racing heart as he types out one last message – the opening curtain on his risqué performance.

Me (8:13pm): Is this one of the things you wanted to try?

Buttons give way under Kurt’s fingers, allowing his half-hard cock to spring free of its tight denim trap. Kurt watches Blaine’s head bob up and down in a vehement nod as he gapes at Kurt’s exposed erection, his overwhelming desire clear as the glass between them.

Kurt clasps the base of his cock with his left hand, squeezing firmly and stretching the delicate skin taut. The first ragged murmur of pleasure hums in his throat as he trails a single fingertip along the slit and down the shaft, lingering over the sweet spot underneath that always sends a shiver down to his toes.

Blaine’s palm slides up to the window; his fingers curl and scratch against the cold, unyielding barrier as if he’s trying to reach out and take. Kurt has a fleeting vision of how that fist would look gripped tightly around his cock – rugged, timid, honest. Now it’s stark and lonesome, pressed flat against smooth glass, grasping nothing but fantasies.

Instinctively, Kurt reaches with his free hand to lightly cover Blaine’s: matching palms, then fingers, then knuckles until they’re partnered. The window blocks the warmth of their skin, but not the scorching heat of the lustful, hungry gaze they share. Blaine briefly breaks the bond; his eyes flicker wider as they fix on Kurt’s hand over his. When his gaze returns, it’s flooded with surprise, gut-wrenching in its earnestness.

Kurt holds Blaine’s fervid stare as he pulls his hand away from the glass, bringing it to his mouth and running his tongue up the length of his palm. The slickness won’t last, but the sheer lewdness spurs him on to the next act in his show.

“Watch me, Blaine.” Kurt exaggerates the shape of his mouth around the words, puckering and pursing his lips so Blaine can read without sound. His eyelids slip shut as he wraps his glistening hand around his twitching cock, standing tall and flushed under the unflinching gaze of his audience of one. 

Kurt wears his sexy side like a beloved designer suit, reveling in its lavish, sumptuous feel against his skin. He’s no longer the Kurt who fills coffee orders for strangers and gets tossed aside by his friends and watches a phone that never rings. He’s a Kurt who’s desired – chosen from millions by this enigmatic puzzle of a man who makes him itch for more. To give more, to take more, to learn more, to offer more.

He shows Blaine the twist of his wrist around the crown of his cock that causes him to writhe in his seat; the friction-filled strokes up and down his shaft – long and languid then _short, fast, tight, mmmm_ – that make his abs quiver; the way he stops to wring around the head, sending warm waves of pleasure shimmering through his blood. It’s a silent film with no subtitles, no script – just sex, illustrated in vibrant color across his bliss-filled face.

Blaine’s forehead joins his fist at the window, his tanned skin crushing against the rigid glass. Kurt watches the window fog around Blaine’s slackened jaw with each ragged, ashen puff of breath, leaving only his haunting gaze in view. Those dark, shining orbs strip Kurt bare – literally, figuratively, in every way – throwing kindling on the blaze that’s engulfed his body.

“ _Oh-ohhh!_ ” Kurt wails a high, broken cry as he comes across his hand, his jeans, his shirt; cum slides under his palm and slicks the last few delicious drags along his cock. His head flies back against the chair, propelling his gasping moans high into the air.

Kurt blinks dazedly at the tiled ceiling above him, panting heavily through dry, parted lips as he floats back to earth. Slowly, he drops his chin down, returning his wrecked gaze to Blaine’s face. Unease creeps into his gut when he sees wild fear dancing behind the man’s mask of control, cooling the pleasure still flowing molten under his skin.

The glass blockade separating them tries to force silence, but Blaine’s tormented stare still tells Kurt things – so many things, _everything_.

_I want you._

_I need more._

_Please. Help me._

Blaine rolls his head to the side, pressing his cheek into the frozen divider like he’s trying to nuzzle closer – closer to Kurt’s limp, liquid body, to share in his exquisite afterglow. Kurt’s breath hitches, mimicking the pang of emotion that aches in his heart as he watches Blaine’s eyelids squeeze shut, his face slowly crumple...

It’s a mere moment, a flash in time – missed if Kurt might have spared a glance away. But he can’t tear his eyes from Blaine’s stricken expression, not even when Blaine suddenly bites down on his bottom lip, so sharp and cruel Kurt’s sure he sees teeth stab through flesh.

Kurt cries out, cringing in horror. But just like _that_ , it’s over. Blaine’s eyes fly open, and his composure slides neatly back into place. The only evidence that remains of the war he fights inside himself are his heaving exhales, one after another, that glaze a perfect round fog into the barrier he’s forced between them – divisive, but transparent.

Their eyes lock over the cloudy circle of breath for a brief, fiery glance. It burns, burns between them, red hot, until Blaine’s up out of his seat, abruptly dousing the flames.

Kurt tries to scramble to his feet, but he’s tangled and sticky and exposed. He can only watch, powerless, as Blaine bolts away. His fingertips glide, lingering, along the glass window, holding on to the last dying embers of their encounter until he finally lets go.


	5. Chapter 5

The whiskey in Blaine’s hand glows amber in the weak light of a single table lamp, shining from one corner of his shadowy living room. He loses all time – seconds, minutes, hours slipping into the past like water down a drain – as he stares into his glass: silent, searching.

_“That’s a man’s drink,” his father grunted as he pushed a small crystal tumbler of tawny liquid toward Blaine one evening during his first visit home from college after turning twenty-one. Then, as abruptly as he’d appeared, his father vanished, leaving Blaine alone to drown his sickness in alcohol._

It’s still Blaine’s beverage of choice – one more layer in the thick shield of lies guarding his truth from the world. It’s what he drinks as he sits in solitary stillness in his trendy Tribeca loft, willing the soundless air that sinks heavy on his shoulders to smother the beasts that torture his soul.

Even here, in the tiny piece of the world he tries to call his own, his abusers always find him.

_“Hey, faggy!”_

Blaine gulps down another mouthful of whiskey, gritting his teeth as the lukewarm liquid sears a burning trail through the thick fear caught in his throat. “Shut up,” he mutters bitterly to the hideous mocking in his head. “Shut. _Up._ ”

But his ugly tumor persists, throbbing painfully just under his skin. Desolation and intoxication fuel its descent to malignancy – inescapable, unembraceable, ripping him apart in an endless, excruciating tug of war.

What if he kept drinking – just drank, and drank, and drank, until his illness was immersed, until his desires disappeared? Until the clock stopped at _sixteen years, nine months, three weeks, and five days_ , and he’d never again be forced to watch the sun rise on another mark on his morbid scorecard?

Blaine heaves out a shaky breath, frantically tapping his foot against the gleaming wood floor to allow a thimble-full of anxiety to escape his tingling body. The sudden jolt of movement sends whiskey sloshing against the sides of the glass he holds in his hand, dangling off his knee. He gazes with heavy-lidded eyes at the glints of golden light that sparkle through the rippling liquid, like bursts of false hope that only serve to remind him that he’s still here. Still alive.

Still _sick sick sick._

Blaine springs from his seat, throwing back the last of his drink before slamming the glass down on the coffee table in front of him. He grabs his coat and keys, and then he’s out the door – fleeing the incessant, deafening noise that doesn’t ever leave him alone.

***

It’s the same script Blaine follows each Saturday night, when the violent voices he hears send him searching for a companion that will silence the sound. There’s always women at the bar down the street: bright, young, and supposedly independent, just waiting for a guy like Blaine to come along and pay them notice.

To them, to the world, he’s simply a man: a normal man, a healthy man, trying to pick up a girl at a bar. But inside, his sick thoughts live and play like laughing schoolchildren – innocent in one breath and then cackling, taunting, cruel the next.

He homes in on a blonde – always a blonde if he can find one, part of his self-imposed penance for the mortal sin his eight-year-old self committed. When she shoots him an alluring, inviting smile, Blaine’s transfixed by her blue eyes.

_Blue. Blue. Blueblueblue._

Paper-thin rings of blue hug lust-blown pupils, glimmering through the dark to warm the frigid air that stings Blaine’s cheeks. Kurt’s eyes stay fixed on him, curious and wanting through immovable glass; hues of heavenly blue pop frantically like firecrackers until they explode with silent pleasure.

Blaine keeps his eyes locked on _blueblueblue_ , slicing out the rest of the scene – perfumed skin and painted lips; her lithe, feminine frame clad in a sparkly sweater.

“Hi, I’m Blaine,” he introduces himself to the woman, tucking his instinct behind the mask he’s molded and hardened to cover his body and soul. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Their conversation quickly turns to flirty banter as she sinks deeper under the spell of chardonnay. The steady flow of whiskey coats Blaine’s mind with thick strokes of _beautiful_ ; fantasy twists and melds with reality in a delicate, dangerous dance until the two are indistinguishable.

He smells the staleness of Kurt’s hallway wafting under his nose when her dainty, bell-clear laughter rings through the air; the melody elicits memories of song that make his cock twitch in his slacks. The teasing touch of her hand on Blaine’s arm steals the air from his lungs, rattling the restraint he clutches so tightly in his chest. Blaine wants to take that hand – to grip it snugly in his own so Kurt couldn’t ever leave him – and pull him up, take him home; lead him proudly instead of following behind in shadows, in poisonous fumes that choke him alive.

“What happened to your lip?” the woman asks, her voice a slurred, throaty murmur as she reaches out to run a single, feather-light fingertip over the bite-shaped scab on his bottom lip.

Blaine battles against himself, against the lightning-quick urge to shrink away snapping through his synapses, as she moves in closer; his body is rigid as fragrant, sticky gloss touches trembling wounds. Her icy lips douse the fire of his dreams for one fleeting, frightening moment, sending up curling tendrils of scalding steam that quickly turn cold, then fade to nothing.

When she pulls away, her eyes linger on his mouth before flicking up to meet his steady gaze.

_blueblueblueblue_

“Did I make it better?”

_Beautiful. You make me feel so much better._

“Not yet.” The half-melted ice cubes at the bottom of Blaine’s empty glass clink softly as he sets it down for the bartender to take away. “But maybe you can help me with that.”

***

They go back to her place – Blaine’s never let a women cross the threshold of his home. Her living room is littered with junk mail and mismatched shoes tossed haphazardly across the floor.

“Sorry, i-it’s such a mess,” she apologizes as she nudges a pair of pink pumps out of their path with her own purple high heel-clad foot.

“It’s all right.” Blaine spares a glance at a fluffy gray cat glaring at him from its spot on her couch. “I’m not here to lounge around, anyway.”

She abruptly turns on her heels, clutching her bedroom doorway to steady her swaying. “ _Mmmmm_ ,” she hums into his ear as she falls against his chest, her arms snaking around his neck. “I _want_ you.”

“I want you, too.” He’s the only thing Blaine wants. The only thing he needs. The saccharine substitute wound around his body is addictive but artificial, sending waves of sickness swelling and breaking in his stomach, his teeth, his limbs.

Blaine pushes her away, blindly walking her backwards until she falls onto the bed, her limbs sprawled languidly over downy, floral bedding. His deft hands work robotically to rip off her ridiculous purple pumps, her ungodly tight jeans – christ, the way his hips swayed as he walked down the street, ink-black denim sprayed over the luscious curves of his ass, his thighs.

Blaine’s mouth latches on to smooth, milky skin, licking a stripe that ends with a bruising suck on the inside of her thigh. The lewd noises of his lips can’t possibly drown out her high-pitched cries as he travels up, up to the sultry spot where she’s already soaked from anticipation. His tongue thrusts in and out – practiced movements over musky wetness, all the while craving an indescribable saltiness he’s only ever imagined.

Her thighs clench around Blaine’s head as she comes, muffling him in darkness. Darker, deeper, he’d descend, smearing a slick trail past her moist center to the tight, guarded hole beyond, where she’s most basal and raw. Lick him open. Fuck him with his tongue, until he babbled and begged for more.

_Scream my name, Kurt. I want to hear you._

Blaine lifts up when her grip recedes; his vision tunnels to stare into _blueblueblue_. “On your hands and knees,” he growls.

The woman raises a lazy eyebrow. “You like being in control, do you?” she asks, her light voice lilting suggestively as she sits up to obey his command.

_Control. Yes._ He’s in control. “Always.” His voice shakes for the first, the only time, easily chalked up to arousal.

He doesn’t strip until her face is turned away. She never sees his scars – not the ones strewn across his skin, nor the ones that bruise his soul.

His hard, sheathed cock slips inside her, his hips snapping forward until he’s buried in a vast black hole. It’s only friction, stark and physical, that offers him any pleasure. Her breathy moans tangle with the voices in his mind, stoking a howling, swirling cloud around his head. He wants to claw at his ears, his skin, the air, yanking out the screeching sounds and suffocating them in his palms of his hands.

Hands.

_I want to hold yours in mine. Let me feel your hands. Please._

Blaine gulps down a breath and bends, pressing his chest flush against her back. His hands trap hers, fingers curling around fingers, rough on top of silky smooth; the glass barrier between them melts clear away under their fervent, fiery touch.

_Kurt. Kurt._ He silently mouths the man’s name into the woman’s neck, ending each syllable with a pinching bite. It’s how Blaine would press the reverent word into Kurt’s soft skin as he pounded into him – owning him, owning himself and his truth.

“ _Uuuhhhrrrr..._ ” His name comes out a guttural, unintelligible groan as Blaine comes inside her, his thrusts growing shallower until he stops, spent.

Mere moments after she slides into sleep, Blaine’s up and gone. He sprints down the city blocks with brisk strides until he’s back in his silent prison, hiding from his demons under covers and pillows that can’t ever warm his ceaseless chill. His arms wrap around his own quavering body as he curls deeper into _beautiful_ – the only safe haven in the haunted forest of his mind.

There he waits, barely breathing, listening to time tick its undying rhythm as he watches for the first muted rays of _sixteen years, nine months, three weeks and six days_ to shine their somber light.

***

Me (7:48am): I never stay with them

Beautiful (7:50am): With who?

Me (7:51am): The women

Beautiful (7:51am): What women, Blaine?

Me (7:53am): The women I fuck

Beautiful (7:54am): Oh  
(7:54am): Blaine…

Me (7:55am): I keep trying to find a woman who makes me feel alive  
(7:55am): The way you do  
(7:56am): But I can’t  
(7:56am): All I could think about was you  
(7:56am): Your eyes. Your hands  
(7:56am): You under me  
(7:57am): Sliding into you  
(7:57am): God, you felt so good

Beautiful (7:58am): omg Blaine  
(7:58am): I want you to. I want you  
(7:59am): Have you...do you only sleep with women?  
(8:00am): Have you ever been with a man?

Me (8:02am): I can’t

Beautiful (8:03am): Why not?

Me (8:04am): Because that’s sick

Beautiful (8:04am): What? It’s not!  
(8:04am): Who said that??  
(8:10am): Blaine?

Me (8:13am): I’m tired, Kurt  
(8:13am): I can’t feel anything  
(8:14am): It’s like I’m dead  
(8:15am): Is this what being dead feels like?

Beautiful (8:15am): No. Blaine, no  
(8:15am): Please don’t say things like that  
(8:16am): It’s ok. I promise  
(8:27am): Please let me know you’re ok

Me (8:42am): I can’t  
(8:46am): Just stay here with me

Beautiful (8:46am): I’m here  
(8:47am): Go to sleep, Blaine  
(8:47am): I’ll stay with you


	6. Chapter 6

“ _Wellllllll?_ ” Kasie drags out the single-worded question, bouncing lightly on her toes while she waits for Kurt to finish hanging up his coat and shoulder bag. “How did it go?”

Kurt purses his lips, letting her question hang in the air for a few more agonizing moments until he can no longer keep his joy from bursting forward. “It went _fantastic_!” he exclaims as he whirls around to face her, tightly clasping his hands together in front of his blooming grin. 

“Kurt!” she shrieks. Her dirty blonde ponytail whips wildly as she throws her arms around his shoulders and squeezes the air out of him. “That’s amazing!”

Kurt lets his heart glide on wave of pure, simple happiness – one sculpted from accomplishment, from dreams and possibilities awoken after a dark slumber. “I’ll find out soon,” he says, his words muffled by Kasie’s wool-clad shoulder. “Any moment now.”

The memories of his audition the previous morning bubble back to the forefront of his mind. He can still taste the sour surges of jitters that stabbed his throat and stomach, so bad he’d nearly retched on the floor while he waited for the director to call his name. Somehow he’d reached down, clenched the anxious nerves in his fist and flicked them away as he walked to the center of the stark, shadowy stage – a stage he wasn’t even supposed to be on, not if he’d let convention keep him away – and stood proudly, unshaking, to pour out his soul in song.

_Kurt’s voice swelled bigger, brighter than ever before; it glided up, up, up toward the tallest buildings, tickling the clouds above, until it exploded with light and color that gently glimmered out of sight as the last notes fell away. Then there was nothing but silence – full and rich and deafening, pounding in his ears between panting breaths._

_“When you sing,” the director finally started, slowly, in a voice dusted with an upper-crust accent that Kurt couldn’t quite place, “I can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman I’m listening to. I close my eyes and I try to place it, but…” he paused and steepled his fingers in front of his groomed, gritty salt-and-pepper beard. “I realize I don’t even care. I know just how King feels as he watches Victoria. I applaud your…fluidity, Kurt. You stand on a razor’s edge between masculine and feminine without getting cut. It’s exactly what we’re looking for.”_

_Kurt couldn’t believe his ears. “T-thank you.”_

_The director nodded once, curtly, with the hint of a smile in his eyes. “We’ll be in touch.”_

The wave crests and breaks, foamy and feather-light at his feet. Kurt breathes a contented sigh. Never before had he felt such a steady beat of calm confidence in the wake of an audition. _I’m going to get this part. I know it._

“You’ll get it.” Kasie echoes Kurt’s thoughts. “I have a feeling about this one. Oh! Before I forget, there was a package waiting for you outside the door when I opened this morning. I stuck it in your cube.”

“A package?” Kurt frowns and pulls away from Kasie’s embrace. He spins on his heels to search the opposite wall, lined with plastic cubbies messily marked with each barista’s name.

“Yeah. It was stuffed in the doorjamb. Kinda weird, but I figured you’d know what it was all about.”

It takes just three long strides for Kurt to cross the tiny break room floor. In the box bearing his name he spots a bulky manila envelope, camouflaged among molded beige plastic and sharp shadows.

Gingerly, Kurt plucks the package from his cube. His frown deepens as he tries to place the identity of the bold, sweeping cursive that spells out _Kurt_ across the front. He lifts the clasp on the envelope and thumbs open the flap to peer inside.

At first, the contents are hard to discern. He sees a slip of paper, ripped along one edge, and something else – something dark and glossy and strangely shaped–

Kurt nearly chokes on his gasp when he realizes what he’s staring at.

“I, uhm.” He clears his throat, starts again. “I’m gonna run to the bathroom before I start. I’ll be…be there in a minute.”

“Is everything okay?” Kasie’s words are colored with concern at the sudden shift in his tone.

“Yeah.” The pitch of Kurt’s voice is high enough to break glass, and as sharp as the pieces that fall in its wake as he run-walks away.

***

The teensy, windowless bathroom at the back of the break room is soiled and dank. Normally, Kurt cringes when he uses it, peeing and washing his hands as quickly as possible so he can escape.

Today, he’ll take his time.

_Clink, clink, clink._ The tinny sound of Kurt’s belt buckle unfastening echoes around the dark, silent room in tune with his shallow breaths. He pulls down his jeans – his favorite pair, faded and fitted to perfection – and lets them pool around his ankles, careful not to subject them to the soiled floor. His briefs follow the same path down his legs. The cool, stagnant air sits heavy against his naked thighs, and he shivers.

He takes his cock on one hand and gently joggles it – though it’s already stirring from the contents inside the envelope he’d tossed onto the toilet lid. He swallows down a moan at the touch of his own palm, soft and cold, cradling his hot, heavy cock.

With his free hand, Kurt grabs the package and tips it down, clumsily spilling its contents across the toilet lid. He reaches for the note first; it trembles in his hand as he stares at it, learning the slant and scribble of Blaine’s handwriting.

_I think you need a reminder that I’m in control. I want you to slide this into that pretty little ass of yours. Wear it until I make you come._

_I’ll be watching you squirm._

The vibrator sitting on the toilet lid is jet black and smooth like gel, and fucking _huge_ – about five inches long, he estimates, and as wide as three fingers at the base. He’s experimented with plugs in the past, but never something as big as this.

Kurt’s breath comes faster, in tiny flutters that make his head feel like it’s taking flight. He jerks his pulsing cock again, sending a shudder through his entire body.

As he stares down at the intimidating toy, Kurt sees something else hidden underneath. It’s a small tube of lube, flattened and crinkled at the top. Brow creased, he picks it up. It feels hollow, too-light to the touch. Half empty.

A prickly punch of heat wells in Kurt’s gut. _Blaine used this._

For weeks, Kurt has been trying to draw lines between the aimless points Blaine had scattered across his life: lecherous lust and twisted honesty, deep depression and heartbreaking loneliness. Some had set themselves up right alongside Kurt’s own, like a partner he’d been searching for but never believed existed.

Now the points were finally starting to form a map: a picture of a man whose deep-rooted fears hold his desires in a desperate, deathly grip. Instead of allowing his true nature to grow and thrive, Blaine had reigned himself in and buried himself alive. This gesture – this lewd, creepy token of affection – was Blaine trying to claw free from the suffocating rubble of his broken life. 

But Blaine needs control. Needs it to get through another day, to continue forward on his crawling journey toward accepting himself.

_If Blaine wants to be in control_ , Kurt thinks as he lets a single finger graze the length of the vibrator, _I’m happy to oblige._

Kurt unscrews the tiny cap off the tube, shivering again as the cold gel slides onto his fingertips. He works it in small circles, letting the lube warm to the temperature of his skin before reaching behind him. 

With one hand spreading his ass cheeks apart, Kurt slowly circles the tip of his slick middle finger around his hole. A delicious tickle crawls up his cock and into his belly as he teases himself. Then he slides the single finger inside, and his world sharply shifts sensual. 

“ _Mmmmmm…_ ” He doesn’t stop his lazy hum as the rigid, silky ring of muscle engulfs his finger. For a moment he stills his motions and simply lets himself feel the smooth, tight pressure.

He inches his finger inward and then glides it out. In, deeper, and then out again. Again. Again, and again, until he aches for more. On the next pull out, Kurt couples two fingers and pushes them in. He curves his knuckles inside himself, seeking his most sensitive spot; when he finds it, he swallows down his moan to a quiet squeak in his throat. 

Another chill shakes through his body as he thrusts a third finger into his ass. It’s cold and suddenly so very lonely in this bathroom, fucking himself for a man who won’t get close enough for Kurt to touch. He shuts his eyes and imagines Blaine’s face on the other side of his lids, looking at him longingly from outside the café window. 

Palms pressed against the glass, wanting. Wanting _Kurt_. 

Eyes locked on Kurt’s, craving. Craving _Kurt_.

The memory is enough to send Kurt’s blood searing through his veins. When he opens his eyes, he finds them glued to the vibrator. It seems less imposing now that his ass is stretched, empty, aching to be filled.

With sticky, shaking hands, Kurt squeezes out the last of the lube and completely coats the toy. He blindly guides it behind him, drawing in a deep breath as its plump, pretty tip grazes his hole. 

Kurt works it in slowly, pressing it forward and then easing back. As the vibrator edges deeper, it feels like a knife slicing him in half; the sensation shoots straight up his spine until he’s gasping, writhing, groaning, screaming into the sleeve of his sweater to stifle the sounds.

When the vibrator’s flared base grazes his skin, Kurt slowly stands up straight. It’s been... _oh_ , it’s been far too long since he felt so full. Deep inside him, the toy hits him right _–_ _right_ there, and every time he moves, every times he _breathes_ it bumps again, sending another wave of arousal through him. 

Kurt drags his briefs and jeans back up his quivering legs, strapping his cock underneath his waistband to hide the bulge. He tucks Blaine’s note safely into his pocket and shoves the empty lube bottle back in the envelope, crushing it into the trash can.

Heart hammering in his chest, Kurt opens the bathroom door and tiptoes out to face the world.

***

_Don’t let anybody know._

It’s all Kurt can think when he walks out of the break room and behind the bustling counter. His head swarms, bright and busy as the crowded café, and his body feels raw – raked open from need and bursting with a brand of anxious embarrassment he’s never felt before. He clenches the toy tighter inside him, hoping to hide it even deeper.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Kurt? You look really... _pink_.” It’s Kasie again, standing before him holding two gallons of milk in her hands. “You shouldn’t be here if you’re sick.”

“I-I’m not sick.” His voice sounds brittle, like he’s about to break. “I’m fine, I promise.” He ties his apron around his waist, hoping the second layer will better hide the evidence of his arousal.

Kurt walks toward the front counter – one slow, wobbly step at a time – and starts up his register. He feels the weight of an army of eyes watching him: his first customer, and the woman next to him, and the five people in line behind them.

_Can they tell?_

_Do they know?_

He fights a war with his fear, forcing himself to get lost in the steady, stressful rhythm of working the register. Take an order, take a payment. Thank you, good morning. For a few minutes, he almost forgets that his ass is stuffed with a sex toy from his stalker.

Until his entire body lights on fire.

He’s just finished scribbling out a young girl’s order across an empty coffee cup when a vibration starts to roll through him, sparking all the way up his body until it tickles his throat with a moan he has to bite down on to keep from erupting. He ducks his head and digs his dull fingernails into the counter, breathing deeply through his nose to steady his shaking knees.

_“I’ll be watching you squirm.”_ Kurt remembers Blaine’s note, still wedged into the front pocket of his jeans. 

_Where is he?_

Kurt manages to pick himself up straight and blindly pass the empty cup to the barista working the latte line. When he looks up, his gaze wanders to the front corner of the café, where he’d performed his graphic one-man show while Blaine had watched from outside the window.

His heart skips a beat when he sees Blaine – he’s here again, watching Kurt, but now he’s _inside_ , warm and lovely in the pretty morning sunlight. He appears to be consummate businessman, casually sipping a coffee while sitting in a cozy high-backed chair by the window. The same chair, Kurt realizes with another start, where Kurt had jerked off for him just a week before. 

It’s not a coincidence, Kurt knows. It’s Blaine, trying to dip a cautious toe into unfamiliar waters. Kurt hopes the savage, deadly current doesn’t come and sweep him away.

Their gazes lock; for a moment, the rest of the world fades and blurs. Kurt thinks of the first time they met, four long weeks ago, when he’d stood at this very counter and stared into Blaine’s sweet, startled eyes for the first time. The two of them are closer now, yet somehow even farther apart.

From his safe distance, Blaine studies Kurt with intent, his face half-shielded by the top of his coffee cup. Kurt watches him release one hand from the cup and snake it into the pocket of his heavy black peacoat.

Vibrations start to pulse through Kurt faster, harder. _He has a remote control in his pocket_ , Kurt realizes. He bows his head again and sucks in a noisy breath, powerless to the control Blaine holds in the palm of his hand.

Just as soon as it shoots higher, the vibrator dies back to a dull hum. But a quavering ghost of sensation still wafts through Kurt’s body, haunting him. _Tease_ , he thinks. 

Kurt tries to power through the hot, throbbing arousal building in his belly. Each time he remembers he’s being watched, a thrill courses through him, mingling with the vibrations in an overcharged symphony. 

He feels a sparkle start to shine in his eyes. He’s sexy – like Victoria, except he’s just himself, he’s _Kurt_. He, too, can put on a show to please a man. He can even try to take the lead in this forbidden dance.

When the next customer – a man of about forty with gray flecks in his well-groomed hair – comes up to the counter, Kurt sheds his last reserve. As he starts to hand the man his coffee, Kurt throws him a smile and a flirty wink.

The vibration suddenly flares and explodes inside of him. Tremors shoot up his spine, buzzing in his brain and showering back down with a heavy shudder.

“ _Ohhhhh!_ ” Kurt lets out a loud, low moan as he doubles over. The cup drops from his hands, hitting the counter with a hollow _thud_. Hot coffee splashes from the lid and singes his bare skin.

“Kurt!” Kasie rushes over and clutches his shoulder, helping hold him up on weak limbs.

Kurt squeezes his eyes shut and prays for the toy to turn down. But it keeps vibrating, driving him maddeningly closer to the edge. “I...don’t feel good,” he gasps.

“Kurt, go _home_!” He feels someone push his coat and shoulder bag against his arm. He grabs them, shoving his arms into his coat sleeves and clumsily swinging his bag over his head.

“I-I’ll be fine t-tomorrow,” he mumbles before he begins to rush for the front door. As he shuffles toward the exit, he glances over at the corner again, where Blaine had been watching him.

The chair is empty.

***

Like a gnat buzzing in his ear that he can’t swat away, the vibrator keeps pulsing _on, off, on, off, on_ as Kurt trots home. It’s a rollercoaster ride of arousal that leaves him panting and spinning, silently screaming to get off. 

Blaine is close – Kurt knows he must be, he _has_ to be if he’s still controlling the toy. But whenever Kurt glances back, all he sees are strangers.

He wants to run, but his weak knees are trembling too hard; they knock into one another with each clumsy step he takes. He keeps his head down to hide the tortured pleasure he knows is etched across his face. A burn mark has bloomed bright red on the back of his hand, and Kurt rubs at it, trying to soothe his scorching skin.

At last he reaches his building; with fumbling fingers, Kurt unlocks the door and lets himself in. He scrambles up the stairs as quickly as he can, groaning as the vibrator presses against his prostate with each step.

A strangled cry bursts from Kurt’s chest when he finally clicks the door to his apartment closed behind him. He tears at the ties of his apron – he’d forgotten to take it off before he left work – and lets the garment fall to the floor in a heap of navy blue. Next go his shoes, his jeans, his briefs, tossed along the short trail he forges to his bedroom.

Still clothed above the waist, Kurt collapses onto his bed and digs into his nightstand drawer for a bottle of lube. He’s so hard it _hurts_ ; just a few slick slides up and down his cock and he’ll–

Suddenly he hears another buzz – not the vibrator, not this time. Kurt stops searching his drawer and blindly reaches over the side of his bed for his jeans on the floor, feeling for the shape of his phone and clawing it out of the pocket. 

Blaine (7:48am): Still wearing my present?

Me (7:48am): Yes

(7:48am): You told me I can’t take it out until you make me come

In his hands, the phone vibrates again – and again and again. It’s ringing, with Blaine’s name big and bold across the top of the screen. 

“Hello?” Kurt pants, answering the call.

“How did it feel?” The question gushes out of Blaine like a geyser, bursting forth with the force of pent-up passion. It’s an earnest, nervous whisper, but it threatens to drown Kurt with its power. “When you were in front of all of those people?”

“I–” Kurt tries to muddle through the melted puddle of his mind. “ _Scary_. Didn’t want them to know what I was hiding. But... _ohhh_ , it feels so _good_ , Blaine.”

Blaine’s pause stretches so long, Kurt thinks he’s hung up. But then Kurt hears him softly speak again.

“That’s...” Blaine stops and blows out a long, slow exhale. “How I feel. That’s how you make me feel, Kurt.”

Blaine’s tender, gravelly murmur wraps around Kurt’s trembling body like a gentle embrace, holding him as he lays there, half-naked and helpless. “Blaine…”

There’s another long pause before Blaine stutters out another soft command. “I-I want...I want to hear you. Scream. For...for me.”

Goosebumps prickle up and down Kurt’s body. “I’ll be _so_ loud for you, Blaine,” he says.

“ _Fuck_.” Blaine breathes the oath, a heavy exhale into the phone. Kurt can nearly feel it, damp and gritty against his oversensitive skin. 

There’s no more window between them – now they can hear each other’s words, breaths, moans. But distance and fear still cuts them apart, and the gash is wide as a canyon. Kurt stands at the precipice, shaking. He can’t cross; he can’t jump. He can only call out, loud and clear, and hope Blaine will hold on to an echo.

When his ass pulses again, hotter and harder than ever, Kurt yelps; the sound quickly degrades into a moan that he lets loose through the room. He stabs at the screen of his phone to turn on the speaker, then drops it to his pillow.

“Oh, _Blaine_.” Kurt wraps his dry fingers around the crown of his cock and strokes once. “W-where _are_ you?”

“Close,” comes Blaine’s husky voice through the speaker. 

“I-I wish you were–” _closer_ , Kurt thinks, but bites down on the word before it escapes. “I-I n-need...t-touch me...” he stammers instead, letting out a high hum as he pumps his cock again.

“Are you jerking yourself off?”

Kurt nods frantically, even though Blaine can’t see him. “ _Yeah_.”

“Oh, yeah. _Yes_. Touch yourself for me, beautiful.”

Kurt’s cock aches from lack of friction; he strokes himself lightly, easing his gnawing need and driving himself closer to ecstasy. His cheeks pulse hot, a throbbing rhythm that he matches with his fist.

“I want to be the only one who makes you come,” Blaine says, sandpaper-rough. “The only one who makes you scream.”

“You _are_.” Desperation drips from Kurt’s breathless voice – he’s desperate for release, desperate to give this to Blaine, desperate for Blaine to stay, even though he’s still so, so far away. “You’re the only one, Blaine.”

Kurt hears the buzz ramp higher a fraction of a second before he feels it, tinging all the way down to his toes. He writhes against his mattress and cries out a piercing wail.

“So _good_ , Blaine,” Kurt babbles, crushing his cheek into his pillow so his lips caress the case of his phone. “ _Shit_. I’ve never felt so good before.”

“It felt good when I wore it last night,” Blaine growls. “I laid in my bed and I thought about how sexy you would sound when I turned it on for you.”

“Y-you... _ohhh…_ ” Two more firm pulls and Kurt comes, squeezing his eyes shut as he flies over the edge – no lifeline to grasp but the one word he wails over and over. “ _Blaine, Blaine, Blaine_.” Cum soaks the scratchy knit of his sweather until it sticks to his stomach in a quickly cooling mess.

He coasts back to solid ground with a sigh; his breaths soften, even, slow. The vibration suddenly stops, and a deep shudder racks his wrecked body.

“Ohhhh,” Kurt moans, long and languid. “ _Blaine_. That was…”

He trails off when he realizes the phone sounds eerily silent.

“Blaine?” The last of the afterglow seeps from his soul. “ _Please_. Don’t leave me, Blaine.”

With his one clean hand, Kurt grabs his phone from the pillow. The screen is black, blank, bare.

“ _No_.” He shoots up from bed and tugs his jeans up his legs, wiping his wet hand across the denim as he races to the door and throws it open. His head whips from side to side, scanning the hallway for any sign of Blaine.

Nothing.

Kurt slams the door shut again and rushes to his bedroom window. With his gaze, he picks through the ant-sized pedestrians scurrying along the sidewalks for one particular head of dark, glossy hair.

No Blaine. He’s vanished again, smoked out by a fog of fear. Kurt turns his back to the window and heaves a lifeless sigh. 

A filmy veil of fatigue suddenly drapes itself over him. His body moves methodically, a shell of its former self sucked dry from exhaustion. He strips off his clothes until he’s bare, shivering in the cool, heavy air of his drafty apartment. Slowly, he slides the vibrator out, wincing at the sudden emptiness; his ass tries to clench around something, anything, but there’s nothing. He tosses the dirty toy onto the pile of discarded clothes and crawls back into bed, pulling the blankets up to his chin and quaking against his cold, sterile sheets.

Kurt picks up his phone again and types out one last text before he rolls over, pressing his eyes into the pillow and willing himself to fall asleep.

Me (8:09am): That’s how you make me feel, too


End file.
